


Rum & Promises

by cardinalrachelieu



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bartender Clarke AU, F/M, Prompt Fill, Read at Your Own Risk, Smut, literally a third of this is smut, the title is so bad i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrachelieu/pseuds/cardinalrachelieu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from <a href="http://bellarkewritersnetwork.tumblr.com">BellarkeWritersNetwork</a> on tumblr: Clarke works at a bar that Bellamy frequents.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Other than casual eye contact, though, they never really spoke, never really interacted. It was just as well. Bellamy spent most of his time blowing off steam with some of his buddies from the Corps, flinging darts at a worn out corkboard and shooting pool. Tonight, however, he’s on his own and he finds himself stepping between her and a six-and-a-half foot tall bodybuilder leering over her in a way that’s obviously making her uncomfortable.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rum & Promises

**Author's Note:**

> I exercised my creative license and made it smutty. All those who object can kindly shut the hell up.

He’d never paid much attention to the tiny blonde—Clarke, the silver name tag said—who sometimes mixed his drinks, and she didn’t seem to mind, busying herself with caring for the patrons and flirting with those from whom she hoped to garner a decent tip. She was a good enough bartender—quick with the alcohol and friendly—and she had his normal drink order all but memorized by now: a shot of tequila to start and then a rotation of the available local drafts for the rest of the evening; sometimes he’d finish things off with a glass of bourbon, but that was only on the nights when he wanted to do nothing more than go home and pass out—forget.

Occasionally he’d find himself missing her on the nights she was off. It meant he had to actually tell the person working the bar what he wanted to drink rather than them just knowing and bringing it to him.

He’d come to trust her judgement with respect to beer and had taken to letting her make the choice for him. She had a knack for picking good ones, and he was all too happy to be surprised. When she was especially confident in her selection, she would wink at him as she set the fresh pint down on a coaster in front of him. If Bellamy was in a particularly good mood that evening, he would try to guess what she’d given him—a correct answer earned him another wink and, sometimes, even an impressed grin.

Other than casual eye contact, though, they never really spoke, never really interacted. It was just as well. Bellamy spent most of his time blowing off steam with some of his buddies from the Corps, flinging darts at a worn out corkboard and shooting pool. Tonight, however, he’s on his own and he finds himself stepping between her and a six-and-a-half foot tall bodybuilder leering over her in a way that’s obviously making her uncomfortable.

He decides to try the diplomatic route first.

“Clarke, would you mind getting me another round?” he asks, tone light as he throws a smile her way—intentionally ignoring the way the drunk’s eyes bore into him. “I’m running a little low.” His glass is very clearly still half full.

“Sure thing,” she replies, seemingly thankful for the interruption.

Bellamy thinks the situation is diffused, so he edges back over to his spot two seats down. The man’s grimy voice reaches his ears a moment later, and when he turns back around the guy’s fingers are curled all too tightly around Clarke’s upper arm.

“Wait just a minute there, darlin’. Where’re you goin’?” He’s holding her in place, preventing her from moving away.

“You’re hurting me,” she squeaks, desperately trying to slide out of his grasp by pushing at his tightly coiled fingers with her free hand.

“Take your hand off her,” Bellamy says, voice dangerously level.

“Go back to your beer,” the guy slurs, “this doesn’t concern you.”

“I was being polite before,” Bellamy grits, rolling his shoulders back and standing up to his full height. “Let me be more direct. Take your hand off her or I will break your arm.” He makes sure to not blink after he delivers the ultimatum.

The man seems to be sizing him up, trying to discern whether or not Bellamy’s bluffing.

He’s not. He could have the creep pinned to the floor in a half second flat.

The Marine Corps had molded him into a force to be reckoned with, a weapon that intimately knew a human’s vulnerable spots and how to most effectively exploit them—and he was good at it. Most days he hates that he possesses that knowledge, but right now he can only be grateful for all the bruises and strained muscles it had cost to obtain it because apparently it translates into making him a very real physical threat to the man harassing Clarke—real enough for him to back off, at least.

“Whatever,” the man grunts, releasing Clarke and retreating across the room.

Not one to make the same mistake twice, Bellamy holds his ground this time—makes sure the guy really does walk away.

“You okay?” he asks after he’s satisfied that the man won’t be coming back.

“Yeah, thanks to you.” She’s rubbing her arm when he turns around to take her in. With any luck, she won’t have a bruise in the morning, but Bellamy’s not holding his breath. The asshole had been squeezing pretty hard.

He shakes his head, frowning slightly. “I just did what any decent person would.”

He’s angling himself back towards his stool when she next speaks, voice pitching up, “Let me buy you a drink.” She has a nervous smile on her face when his eyes find her again. Squaring his shoulders to face her, he shoves both hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

“Nah, it’s okay,” he shrugs, not feeling right about accepting compensation for behavior that should be considered the norm.

“To say thank you,” she adds, as if he didn’t understand her offer when she initially made it.

“I don’t want you to thank me,” he clarifies, probably a bit too harshly. He’s always had a way of doing that—of infusing his words with a tone that warns people to keep their distance.

She recoils, drawing back into herself and stammering, “Oh… I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, that’s—” He sighs, cursing lack of interpersonal skills. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—you shouldn’t have to thank me for doing that.”

Her lips pinch together in a lopsided smile, brows furrowing faintly as she takes him in anew.

“How about I buy _you_ a drink,” he counters, wanting to make up for a second ago. Plus, now that they’re actually talking, he doesn’t want it to stop.

“I’m working,” she returns with a small laugh, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Well, what time do you get off?” he responds without missing a beat, hoping— _praying—_ that the smile stays on her face, that she doesn’t turn him down.

“Two.” There’s a playful glint in her eye as she grins up at him through a fan of lashes.

“Let me buy you a drink at two, then.” It’s a good thing his hands are tucked away because otherwise he would reach up and brush that stray curl out of her face, and he feels like that would probably be overstepping.

“All the bars are closed at two.” She tilts her head to the side and bites her lip. (It’s unfair.)

“Something tells me we’ll be able to work around that.”

 

* * *

 

It’s exactly 1:58 when Bellamy walks back into the bar. He’d decided to step out for a few hours after inadvertently asking Clarke on a date, not wanting to awkwardly hover until everyone else cleared out. (Plus, if he was being honest, he didn’t want to watch her chat up other people, even if it was only to get a good tip out of them.)

She’s behind the counter when his eyes find her, a gilded tiara peeking out from underneath her golden waves. It has neon pink feathers tucked into the band and a shine that tells him it’s made entirely of plastic, but he can’t help but think it’s a good look for her.

Clarke’s waving to one of her co-workers when she finally sees him, and a smile overtakes her features. A second later she’s focused back on her task, dutifully drying off and putting away cups.

“And here I was thinking you’d ditched me,” she teases, barely allowing her gaze to drift over to where he’s standing as she stacks clean glasses on a tray—a second later hefting it up and sliding it beneath the counter.

“Not a chance, princess,” he assures her, smirking at the silver accessory adorning her head.

At the nickname, Clarke’s brows knit together in confusion. Bellamy simply nods to the dollar store tiara currently situated atop her blonde curls and takes a step closer, pressing his palms flat against the worn out wood of the bar.

“Oh, that.” She touches a few fingers to her head, an embarrassed smile pinching at her lips. “A bachelorette party came through a little while ago. They named me an honorary bridesmaid after I hooked everyone in their group up with a free shot.”

“That was nice of you,” he says, sliding onto one of the stools.

She shrugs, methodically dragging a damp rag over the counters in wide, sweeping circles. “Eh, we do it for every bachelorette party.” Her brows lift thoughtfully before she continues, “The crown’s new, though. Never been given a crown before.”

“It suits you,” he remarks, and for once in his life he’s actually being genuine.

“Well in that case,” she pauses, smiling up at him, “I’m not taking it off.”

Clarke gives the area a final once-over before deciding that the counter’s about as clean as it’s gonna get. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses the dirty piece of cloth into a bin and rests her forearms on the bar. Bellamy does his best to not focus on the way the action pushes her breasts together, the deep vee of her black shirt practically daring him to look down. Through sheer willpower he manages to keep his gaze trained above her neck, though it goes out of focus under the effort.

“I seem to recall,” she starts, and her voice pulls his attention back to her eyes, crisp and blue and sparkling, “being promised a drink by a ruggedly handsome man who saved my ass earlier tonight.” She’s smiling.

“You seeing someone else?” he jokes, the self-deprecating humor earning him a quick grin before her features form into something more earnest.

“Seriously, thank you.” She regards him with a warm gaze.

Bellamy nervously tears his eyes away, taking interest in a small chip on the edge of the wooden counter and clearing his throat. “It was nothing.”

“I disagree,” she says stubbornly.

He regards her for a moment before responding, “I get the feeling you could’ve handled it yourself.” He means it, too. She has a certain strength about her. He thinks it’s in the way she carries herself, the way she commands respect with a simple glance, the way her voice is always burdened with the weight of some untold secret.

“Normally, yeah. I don’t know what happened. I just… froze.” He can see it happening—see Clarke replaying the confrontation in her mind, see the fear creep over her features as though it was happening all over again right here and now. He recognizes it because he goes through the same thing nearly every night when he closes his eyes in search of sleep. “He was _so_ much bigger than me…” she trails off.

Bellamy takes special care to make his tone soft as he says, “Let’s not talk about him.”

Clarke’s lips press together at that, expression lightening. “That sounds like a good plan.”

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “Did you call me ruggedly handsome?” He knows he has a smug grin on his face but he can’t seem to force it away, not with the way she’s glaring back at him with mock annoyance.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she scoffs, leaning in just a little bit closer.

“Too late,” he says unapologetically, raising his shoulders.

Clarke’s face scrunches together as if the sun is blinding her. “You’re gonna make me regret saying that, aren’t you?”

“Only a little bit,” he kids, pleased with himself—pleased that he’s the reason the smile is back on her face. “So… what’s good around here?” (As if he isn’t well acquainted with their alcohol stores and all the options available.)

“We could do bourbon,” she suggests on a whim, and he has a feeling it’s because she knows he normally gravitates toward it this time of night.

She’s already about to pluck it from the shelf lining the back wall when he says, “Nah, not tonight.” With a small shake of his head, she’s retracting her arm from its extended position toward the bottle of liquor. “I think I’ll wanna remember this,” he mutters to himself, low enough that Clarke won’t be able to hear him.

“What was that?” she asks innocently, unaware of what he’d actually said.

“Nothing,” he says easily. Bellamy repositions himself on the stool before continuing. “What else you got, princess?”

She rolls her eyes at the name, but half of her mouth ticks up into a suppressed smirk and she bites her lip to keep it from turning into a full-fledged grin. “Um… how do you feel about rum?”

“You trying to get me drunk?” he accuses, sitting up a little straighter at his seat on the barstool.

“Only a little bit.” She repeats the phrase mockingly, her mouth parting invitingly as the last syllable rolls over her lips. He thinks about how she’d feel pressed against him, thinks about how she’d sound sighing his name. (He immediately regrets it because now he can’t think of anything else.)

Clarke grabs a rectangular bottle from the top shelf, snagging two shot glasses along with it. In another moment, the drinks are poured and they’re both knocking back a mouthful of the amber liquid. Bellamy’s about to say something, but she holds up a finger to silence him and pours another round. A silent nod serves as the signal and both Bellamy and Clarke upend their glasses at the same time.

Clarke clicks her tongue behind her teeth, no doubt from the burn of the rum. “So. Tell me about yourself,” she prods, joining him on the other side of the bar. The stool swivels when she lands on it.

He laughs dryly. “Nah, I don’t think so.” He hates talking about himself, talking about his past, talking about anything that reminds him of all the violence he’s committed in the name of national security. “Maybe another time,” he adds, tone something short of genuine. “What about you? I hardly know anything about you—except that you have exceptional taste in beer.”

“I do, don’t I?” she says proudly, not really intending it as a question.

“That’s not an answer,” he observes, arching a brow at her.

“Oh, I don’t have nearly enough rum in me to answer that question yet.” She’s dodging. He gets it. Hell, he just did the same thing.

“Well, since I won’t talk and you won’t talk… what are we gonna do?” He somehow manages to get the question out without it sounding as if he’s suggesting they go have sex on the pool table ten feet away. (It isn’t like he’s thought of nothing else for the past five minutes—that would be ridiculous.)

“I can think of a few things,” she purrs, dropping a fingertip to the back of his hand and tracing a delicate pattern.

“Mm?” he questions, a bit caught off guard but recovering quickly.

“Mhm,” she hums, leaning in closer—rum-laced breath ghosting over his lips. “I’ll get the cues,” she says brightly, pulling away from him with a self-satisfied smirk. He knows he must look like an idiot—lips parted expectantly because he’d been sure she was about to kiss him.

“C-Cues?” he manages.

“I’m gonna kick your ass at pool,” she says matter-of-factly. “Bring the rum with you whenever you decide to pick your jaw up off the floor.” Her hair fans out around her as she cranes her neck to throw the words over her shoulder.

Oh, this was gonna be fun.

 

* * *

 

She hadn’t been joking. Bellamy considered himself to be pretty capable with a well-chalked pool cue, but Clarke was giving him a run for his money. He’d never admit to it, but three turns ago he _may have_ intentionally brushed up against her as she was lining up her shot, casually letting his hand settle on her hip before he whispered, “Don’t miss,” into her ear.

The ball rolled wide its intended mark and the glare she gave him afterward would’ve caused a lesser man to implode on the spot. Bellamy responded by throwing a smug grin her direction and edging closer to the table to take his turn.

What he hadn’t counted on was her returning the favor.

Leaning in close, Clarke had dragged her fingers up his back until they tangled in the soft curls at the nape of his neck. Lips brushing the shell of his ear, she breathed, “Don’t miss.”

He’d been tempted to forget the game altogether—grab her by the waist and set her on the table and rip her underwear off with his teeth—but his pride had gotten the better of him. (It was a recurring problem, really.) He found it relatively easy to tune her out, to lapse into soldier mode where the only focus was the objective.

Two steadying breaths and a quick jerk of his arm later, the tiny orange ball was disappearing into the corner pocket. She’d let out a huff in frustration.

Now, however, Clarke’s lining up the game winning shot as he stands off to the side with his arms resting atop the lacquered pool stick. Briefly, Bellamy tries to pretend that he’s letting her win, that maybe the rum is throwing off his game, but he knows full well that she’s beating him fair and square.

“Eight ball, side pocket,” she calls, settling back into her stance and shifting her hips from side to side to get comfortable. The movement is probably a little more exaggerated than is strictly necessary, but Bellamy can’t find it within himself to complain. (He’s tolerant like that.)

“Ha!” she barks, rocking back on her heels victoriously when the shiny black ball goes into the named pocket.

It barely registers that he just lost—he’s too caught up in the way that smile is making her entire face light up, the way she’s shrugging her shoulders like winning was a complete accident, the way that _stupid_ crown is now crooked but still suits her just as much as it did when he first saw it.

Suddenly his movements are happening independent of conscious thought and he finds himself pulling her into him and pressing his lips firmly against hers. She doesn’t waste any time responding, carding her fingers through his hair and deepening the kiss. Bellamy breaks away, needing to know if she’ll sigh like he’s been imagining she will if he sucks at a certain spot on her neck.

She does.

He walks her back until they bump into the edge of the pool table and then hitches one of her legs up around his waist. Clarke allows her other knee to buckle and then she’s relaxing against the green felt, bracing a hand behind her to make sure she stays upright.

“So,” the word gets caught in her throat along with a moan when Bellamy rolls his hips against her, “what do I win?”

“Depends.” Bellamy tries to conceal the drum of his heart—so loud and persistent—with a casual tone. He’s not sure she’ll go for what he has in mind—it _is_ awfully forward.

“On what?” Her brows furrow and she nips at his bottom lip.

“How you’d like to collect your reward,” he says in honeyed tones, running his fingers over her thigh.

“I have a choice?” Clarke pulls back to look him in the eye, intrigued. There’s only a thin blue ring of color left, the black of her pupils nearly eclipsing it fully.

Bellamy tucks a hair behind her ear before resuming his earlier exploration of her neck. “Of course,” he mumbles against her skin, so low that his chest vibrates with the words.

“Mm,” she regards, angling her head so that he has access to the swath of skin just underneath her jaw, “what are my options?”

“Lips or hands.” As if to press his point, he kisses his way down her neck while trailing his fingers up her inner thigh.

He hears her breath hitch before she replies, “Both.”

“Greedy,” Bellamy scolds, already dropping to one knee and peeling his shirt off.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she promises, winking.

He makes quick work of her shorts, pushing them over her hips as Clarke lifts herself off the table a few inches. Next she’s toeing off her shoes and they land with a clatter on the floor somewhere behind him—exactly where, he doesn’t really care; he’s attending to more important things at the moment. Like how she’s already very clearly wet, a darkened patch on the grey cotton panties giving her away.

Those are next to go, and he tosses them over his shoulder as he takes her in, flushed and panting and wanting.

He grips her hips and pulls her to the edge of the table with a sharp tug, nudging his shoulders under her thighs as he touches his lips to the skin just above her knee. One of her hands threads through his hair in an attempt to steady herself and he thinks it’s the best feeling in the world.

He’s slow kissing his way up her legs and she’s squirming by the time he finally reaches their apex, a curse barely contained behind her clenched teeth. He can tell how much restraint she’s exercising, how badly she just wants to curl her fingers and force his mouth against her.

He decides this is payback for all those times during their game of pool that she intentionally pushed her boobs together when she knew he was looking—and that one time she bent over the table when she was standing right in front of him and knowingly brushed her ass against the front of his trousers. (Honestly, that should’ve counted as cheating on her part.)

He’s planning on drawing this out until she begs him to put his mouth on her, but then he breathes her in and all his lofty plans of torturous teasing go to shit.

She tastes like copper, he thinks—metallic in a way that makes his mouth water—but there’s also sweet undertones, like a berry that was picked too soon.

Her fingers tense in his hair at the contact and she sucks in a sharp breath, canting her hips to meet his efforts. Bellamy decides that he wants to make her do that again, so he slowly—maddeningly slowly—drags his flattened tongue over her until she bucks against him and he has to pull back to keep from sustaining an injury. Smirking, he moves one hand to her waist—pushing her leg up with the movement—to still her and digs the fingers of his other hand into the flesh of her hip.

Then his mouth is back on her, covering as much as he can, and he’s nuzzling his jaw from side to side while his tongue draws vertical figure eights. If the moans and _Oh God_ s are any indication, he thinks he’s discovered what she likes.

It’s when her muscles start to shake and he knows that he’s got her close to the edge that he slips one, then two fingers inside her, curling them upward while he continues to flick his tongue back and forth against her clit. A strangled gasp morphs into a high pitched keening sound as her orgasm crashes over her, her walls clenching around his fingers in a way that sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his cock.

It’s only when she pushes his head away that he rises back up, a somewhat arrogant grin plastered on his face.

“We should play pool more often,” she manages to get out through heaving breaths.

“I’ll make sure to lose every time.” Bellamy’s filter is apparently turned off because he only meant to _think_ that, but Clarke smiles and pulls him into a kiss so he guesses it’s not entirely bad that he let the words slip out.

The next second he feels her hands working to undo his belt, and he’s more than a little relieved that she doesn’t want to stop with just foreplay. The portion of his brain that’s still working tells him to grab the condom from his back pocket before his jeans are on the floor, so he does, ripping it open and sliding the latex over his length while she busies herself with getting rid of her shirt and bra.

He’s about to stop and ask her if she’s sure, but before he can her ankles are locked behind his waist and she’s canting her hips up to meet his. Bellamy drops one hand to her lower back and brings the other up to the nape of her neck, pulling her into a bruising kiss.

Clarke whines and claws at his shoulder blades, desperately trying to draw him closer, eventually becoming desperate and throwing an idle threat his way—“I swear to God Bellamy, if you don’t fuck me on this damn table I’m charging you double for drinks from now on.”— and that’s when the last of his resolve crumbles and he buries himself inside her—slowly and deliberately.

As he pushes past her entrance, Clarke groans and drops her head to his shoulder, lips brushing against the sweat slicked skin. It’s a struggle to stay in control after that, to tamp down the burning heat inside of him long enough to make sure that Clarke comes again.

And she does—one arm slung around his neck and the opposite hand bracing against the table when his name is torn from her lips in the form of a cry, each syllable timed with his thrusts as he drives into her over and over again. It’s the way her walls flutter around his cock that finally does him in, makes his hips stutter to a halt and his vision to go black for one blissful second.

Bellamy rests his forehead against hers as the high works its way out of his system, breaths evening out and gaze pulling itself back into focus. He notices that she’s in the same boat and that causes him to breathe out sharply in lieu of an authentic laugh. Again, the self-satisfied smirk returns to his face.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asks, gulping to coat his throat with moisture again—panting having done a pretty thorough job of drying it out.

Clarke lifts her forehead from his, squinting as she replies, “I actually have the night off—why?”

“I’d like to take you out on a date—a real one.” If he weren’t so worn out, he’d probably laugh at the fact that he’s asking her out while still inside her.

“I dunno,” she muses, tracing a finger over the lines of the muscles on his chest, “I thought this was a pretty good date.”

He grins down at her, all lopsided and heavy-lidded. “I promise I can do better, princess.” It’s a fucking miracle that the tiara is still on her head with how hard he’d been pounding his hips against her. He reaches one hand up to situate it just a bit straighter and she closes her eyes, blushing.

“ _That_ I find hard to believe,” she says, flicking her eyes back up to his.

Bellamy bites his lip to keep the smile from stretching all the way across his face, pausing a moment before asking, “What do you say?” His brows turn up, hopeful, as he watches her consider the offer.

“Okay,” she agrees. “But only if you promise that at some point you’ll do that tongue thing again.”

 _She drives a hard bargain_ , he thinks, and Bellamy is about eighty percent sure that Clarke can feel the way his cock stirs inside her at the prospect of doing “that tongue thing” again.

He’s fighting off a chuckle when he says, “I think I could find a way to work it into the schedule.”

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS STAYING A ONE-SHOT DO NOT TEMPT ME TO CONTINUE IT. I always let you jerks talk me into continuing these things and now I have approximately 73 WIPs. I hope you're happy.
> 
> Reviews give me life, so don't be shy :)


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